


Leave a light on

by MadameMeduse



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Self-Harm, soft bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27957377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMeduse/pseuds/MadameMeduse
Summary: My contribution to the 5 + 1 challenge.5 times Geralts leaves a light on for his bard.1 time Jaskier leaves a light on for his Witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 260





	1. Broken Things

It was far after midnight and Jaskier the bard finally bowed to his cheering audience, beaming with joy and pride after three successful and strenuous sets. The large taproom of the "Boar and Deer" inn was bursting with drunk and happy people and incredibly loud and stuffy.

“Ladies, Gents, it's been a pleasure!” Jaskier yelled enthusiastically. He waved his goodbyes, gulped down a mug of water the innkeeper handed him with a broad smile and ran his sleeve over his forehead, catching the drops of sweat that had been running into his eyes for the last half hour. 

He was exhausted and in pain, but also in a good mood, as he had made enough coin to buy provisions for another week of travel on the Path. Geralt's Path. Thinking of the Witcher, the minstrel sighed heavily and his lips thinned. It was time to go to bed, but he didn't look forward to it.

The two of them shared a small room on the second floor of the inn. That night, the Witcher had left the taproom after a silent shared dinner of stew and bread even before Jaskier had started his first set. Geralt had been hunting Nekkers during the whole day and even though he hadn't been hurt, he had been tired and extraordinary grumpy. 

The bard, who had been following the white haired man for three month now, knew it was better to leave his Witcher companion alone when he was in his brooding mood and so Jaskier's movements became very cautious as he approached the second floor.

Which wasn't simple at all. He winced repeatedly as his too soft leather boots collided with the wooden stairs. He had managed to break two of his toes the night before. Walking into a pitch black room, being drunk as a skunk and manoeuvring himself into his bed had been too much of a challenge for him then. Geralt, wide awake after the impact of Jaskier's foot on the bed frame and the shocked bard's whining, had been growling and scolding him for his clumsiness.

Jaskier had no intention to repeat that scene, because deep in his soul, he feared that one day, Geralt might just leave him behind because the he grew tired of Jaskier's bothersome company. The minstrel paused in front of their door and caught his breath. With one hand, he steadied his lute case on his back and the other one pushed the door open, hinges creaking softly.

There was a soft, golden glow waiting for him and Jaskier blinked in surprise. An expensive beeswax candle burnt in the candlestick on Jaskier's night stand. The flame flickered in the air current blowing through the leaky window frame.

The minstrel tiptoed into the chamber with a pained grimace and closed the door as silently as possible. Geralt was snoring lightly in his narrow bed, his body covered with a blanket that was way to small for his bulky form. Jaskier exhaled, suddenly relieved he hadn't woken his travel companion again. He slipped off his boots, stored the lute case away and undressed quickly to his smallclothes, folding his garments meticulously and placing them on a stool. 

Yawning, he slid between the cold and scratchy sheets of his own bed and bent forward to blow out the candle. He froze as he noticed that Geralt's body tensed and the Witcher turned on his straw filled mattress. Golden cat eyes, amazingly mellow and hazed with sleep, focused on the bard and Jaskier gulped down his rising panic.

“Erm, Geralt, hey, thanks for the candle. It's a sweet gesture!” Jaskier was immensely proud of the steadiness of his voice.

“It's not”, the Witcher rumbled and shifted, dragging his blanket over his scarred chest. “Can't let you slow me down. No more broken bones.”

“Oh. Alright, then. Good night”, Jaskier mumbled, his heart sinking again, and blew out the candle. The soft shine died away, allowing the darkness to creep into the room and into the bard's heart.

He was a fool, too willing to believe that Geralt of Rivia, the mighty White Wolf, would care about someone other than himself.


	2. Fire and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really tried to write something light and beautiful. It turned out to be darker than I expected. :(
> 
> So please see a mild content warning: child abuse, anxiety, self inflicted injury

„Geralt.“

„Jaskier.“

„It’s pretty dark in here.”

“We’re in a closet. What did you expect?”

“True. But-.”

Uncomfortable silence spread its itchy wings. The minstrel shifted a bit and bumped into an unnatural warm and solid chest. It was completely dark in their hiding spot and Jaskier felt his hackles rising. The consuming blackness reminded him of his childhood and the endless hours he had spent in the travel chest at his father's study. A very effective sentence for an unlovable, cheeky son. He gulped down a whine and tried to concentrate on his surroundings. It would be over. Soon.

“Jaskier. Stop moving.”

“Right, sorry.”

“You should be.” Geralt’s voice was gravely and filled with annoyance. Jaskier could feel the other man’s steady breath ghosting over his cheek and the burning feeling of irritation in his guts got worse. Now that he couldn't see a thing, he could scent the red wine the Witcher had enjoyed earlier this evening. The faint smell of sweat and soap. It was surprisingly soothing, but also highly irritating.

“Actually, I am the innocent victim of this unfortunate situation”, the bard whispered. He just couldn't stop talking. Talking always helped him to battle his anxiety. Geralt's small huff of amusement ruffled Jaskier's hair. The bard bit his lip, hard. Perfect, now the Witcher was laughing at him. His humiliation was perfect. “She wasn't even my type.”

“She had legs.”

“Rude, Geralt! I have a very refined taste in wo -.”

A large, calloused hand suddenly covered Jaskier's mouth and the bard felt that finally, sheer panic rose in his throat, forming a lump, cold and rotten like a decomposing apple stuck in his pipe. Even though he could still breathe through his nose, his limbs began to tremble slightly.

One, two, three, four, five. Wine. Leather. Chamomile. Weapon oil. Geralt. _Wait, that wasn't even a category_ , Jaskier thought numbly, grounding himself with the help of his remaining sensory impressions.

“Guards in the corridor.” Geralt's voice was surprisingly soft now, a throaty rumble Jaskier could feel resonating in his own body. The bard wanted to burst into tears, but knew it was the worst possible moment, so he gulped down his fear. The hand moved away and Jaskier gasped for breath, but managed to remain perfectly still. “They're gone. Sorry.” Geralt's voice, again. Rueful, now.

“S-okay.” The minstrel sniffed and sent out a wobbly smile into the darkness, aiming for a spot where he suspected the Witcher's face to be. After spending two summer seasons with Geralt, Jaskier knew that the other man could see him perfectly well. It was irritating and left Jaskier with a numbing feeling of vulnerability.

A spark lit in the blackness of the closet. It had the colour of skin and blood, incredibly warm and translucent. The bard relaxed instantly, leaning into the cold wall behind his back and the tension in his body drifted away. Jaskier exhaled shakily. He tried to figure out where this light had come from as it died away as unexpectedly as it had appeared. A strange smell filled the warm air and it hit Jaskier like a ton of bricks.

“Did you – just light Igni between your hands?”, the minstrel whispered, struck by awe and shame. His heart rate rose to a painful peak. “For - me?”

The Witcher just hummed in response, refusing any additional spoken word. But Jaskier knew that he had lost his heart and that it belonged right between Geralt's burnt hands. Even if he knew the Witcher wouldn't want it at all.


	3. Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so glad you enjoy this little collection of one shots. :) Thank you so much for every comment and kudo!

“Jaskier, l need -.” Geralt tried to rise from the small bed in a rush, but collapsed on the straw mattress before he could even stand on both feet. The Witcher's pale face was marked with dark black veins standing out from his white skin. It was a horrific sight, but Jaskier wasn't afraid. The thing that really scared him was the dark blood that slowly showed up on the bandages the minstrel had wrapped around the Witcher's chest half an hour ago. Jaskier had worn gloves to protect his own skin from the aggressive toxins in Geralt's blood that had now started to disintegrate the bandages.

The minstrel nearly dropped his lute and as he put her away quickly, the chords emtitted a sharp twang. He rushed to his companion's aid and coaxed him back into a lying position with soft pressure of his palms against the Witcher's sturdy shoulders. He knew that Geralt could easily resist to the tender push, even wounded and poisoned by his highly potent potions. The white haired man had done it multiple times during the five years of mutual travelling, just ignoring his body's needs and moving on with whatever he thought would be more important than his personal suffering.

“Geralt, please. It can't be that important”, Jaskier murmured and shook his head, pursing his lips. “See, I need to head down and play. Remember, we're out of coin and these alderman fucker refused to pay you? I hate to worry about you staining the furniture with all this _gore_ – it will totally ruin my performance.”

He had tried for a smug tone and succeeded. It was a half lie, of course. He was a perfect performer and his voice wouldn't falter. But his heart – that was another story. One he would never use for a ballad. It was only written in his soul, with bloody and fiery red letters.

“Black Blood”, Geralt rasped and closed his eyes. His sweat and blood soaked the mattress and his powerful body shook as he propped himself up on his scarred forearms. “I need it tomorrow.”

“Naw.” Jaskier mumbled tiredly. “No need to go back to that fucking bruxae's house. They're dead. I mean _'dead-dead'_. And remember, we didn't get paid.”

“Bard”, the Witcher answered and silent desperation showed in his voice. He opened his eyes again and they just stared at each other, a battle of wills Jaskier knew he was about to lose. The bard hated it. “I need to be sure of that.”

“Yeah, of course you do”, Jaskier sighed and suddenly felt hot anger rising from his guts. He had tried hard to keep his face straight, but he was terrified and exhausted and a whole night of performance hadn't even begun. A night of false smiles and pretend amusement. “Well, fine! Get up and work yourself to death. I. Don't. Care!”, he yelled, picked up his lute and stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him and he fought the hot tears that welled in the corners of his eyes.

It was hard to love Geralt of Rivia. That self centred, grumpy, rude, bossy, fucking self sacrificing bastard.

It was impossible _not_ to love Geralt of Rivia. That caring, gentle, heroic, stunning, trustworthy man.

__Jaskier denied himself the urge to just sit down on the stairs and sob until his eyes ran dry. It was his task to keep them fed and cared for during the next days and he wouldn't allow himself to fail Geralt in any way. So he straightened his shoulders, put on his most cheerful stage face and pranced into the taproom like the born entertainer that he was._ _

__He played three whole sets and in the end, there was enough coin in his purse to afford two more nights in the tavern. Geralt could recover and then they would move on, without mentioning this shitty village ever again. A village that had hired a Witcher to risk his life without even having the money to pay him. The memory of the alderman laughing arrogantly in Geralt's face as the Witcher had showed up at his doorstep, bleeding and only held up by the poison in his veins, was something Jaskier would never forget. The minstrel wasn't a hateful man, but this time, he had been close to murder._ _

__Exhaustion trembled in his limbs as Jaskier climbed the stairs. He desperately longed for deep and undisturbed sleep, but he knew he wouldn't find it tonight. There were only nightmares when Geralt was hurt._ _

__The bard pushed the door open and froze at the sight of the room. The Witcher had obviously left the bed at a time. The ramshackle table was covered with dried herbs, flasks and mushrooms. A small knife gleamed in the bright white light of the alcohol fueled torch Geralt always used while brewing his potions. There were a copper pot, a cutting board and Jaskier's gloves. And a lettered parchment next to his own inkwell and quill._ _

__The bard furrowed his brow and quietly stored away his lute, sneaking through the room like a burglar. The Witcher was in his bed again, sleeping like a log and snoring lightly. The torch's shine revealed that Geralt's face had regained its normal complexion. His bandages were soaked with dried blood._ _

__Jaskier sighed in relief and rubbed his forehead. He sat down on the stool next to the table and took the parchment._ _

___“1 dose of White Gull. 1 dose of Enhanced Black Blood. 5 hellebore petals. 5 sewant mushrooms. 1 han fiber. 2 leaves of Nostrix. Half ounce of Rebis. Cut the mushrooms, plants. Mix with alchemic ingredients. Let simmer for an hour. Use gloves. Don't get hurt. G.” ____ _

____There were bloody fingerprints on the paper and Jaskier bit down another sob. Tears blurred his vision as he read the recipe. Of course Geralt wouldn't lower himself by asking for help while being awake. So he had just written a gods damned letter and expected that the bard would follow his instructions. It was devastating._ _ _ _

____Jaskier tried to tell himself that the Witcher trusted him enough to leave his alchemy to him, but there was no more room for a positive thought in his mind. He wiped his tired eyes with his sleeves and the letters became clearer again._ _ _ _

____He had missed the postscriptum._ _ _ _

____“I am sorry, Jaskier.”_ _ _ _

_____Oh._ _ _ _ _


	4. Stairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many sweet comments and kudos! People, you rock my world! :)

“Congratulations, Lambert. You just broke the bard.” Eskel's amused voice finally pushed Jaskier over the edge and the minstrel howled out with long suppressed laughter. He nearly choked on his last sip of the White Gull enhanced mulled wine, coughed and wheezed and cackled, plastering the table top with droplets of wine and salty tears. The youngest Witcher growled and leaned forward to protect his beloved Gwent cards from getting wet.

It was Jaskier's second day at Kaer Morhen and after allowing himself to settle in at the gloomy and run-down keep that only seemed to remain upright because Vesemir wanted it to be, the minstrel finally had found himself surrounded by Geralt of Rivia's long hidden family for dinner and it was a blast.

They had feasted and talked and at some point, the oldest Witcher had decided he should go to bed and Geralt had surprisingly announced that he would retreat, too, because he had chores to complete the other morning. It had left Jaskier with two Witchers who couldn't have been more different.

Eskel was quiet, pensive and had a fine sense of humour. He seldom smiled and when he did, there always was something that hid his scarred face – his rough hands, his mug or the herbarium of algae he had decided to read in the dim candlelight while Lambert had insisted on playing Gwent and getting Jaskier drunk as a newt.

Lambert clearly was the avatar of mischief. Alchemy and chemistry were his favourite subjects and he loved to imply that he had hidden explosives everywhere at the keep and would blow Jaskier up without hesitation if he caught him cheating. But as the minstrel had asked Lambert if mining the murals wasn't a bit excessive, the youngest Witcher had mumbled that he would never leave his home unprepared again and Jaskier had understood that Lambert was so much more than scowls and threats.

“So, let's call it even”, Jaskier chuckled after being sure he wouldn't be dying of asphyxiation and tried to ignore the feeling of alcohol tingling in his nose. Eww. “Gentlemen, it has been an honour and a pleasure to finally make your proper acquittance. Me, a humble bard, finally in the den of the Wolves, declared trustworthy after ten years of most faithful companionship and -.” He stood and swayed. “Uhm. My feet are malfunctioning. What an unfortunate turn of events.”

“And completely unexpected”, Lambert grinned as innocently as a hunting knife's blade and tried to wipe fluids from the wild mixture of his and Jaskier's playing cards. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“You, Sir, are a menace!” Jaskier's index finger drew complicated patterns in the air as he tried to point steadily at Lambert. “I like you!”

The minstrel finally gave up on the intended accusatory gesture as Eskel closed his book and sighed.

“And because _we_ like you, I will accompany you to your room now”, the terribly scarred Witcher announced in a friendly voice. “The stairs are crumbling and too dangerous for a drunk human.”

Jaskier just hummed and mumbled a short praise as Eskel wrapped a muscular arm around the minstrel's ribcage to steady him on his feet. The slowly passed the kitchen and arrived at the bottom of the stairs. A lantern stood on the lowest step. Another one ten steps above the first one.

The bard blinked and tried to understand what that meant, but there was another thing bothering him now and he was indeed too tipsy to divide his brain function into two different sections.

“How can you _like_ me, we only met yesterday?”, he mused slurrily, staring at the rare and open smile that lit Eskel's whole face.

“You should ask Geralt about it”, the dark haired Witcher suggested as they passed another lantern that illuminated the dark spiral case.

“Whoa, why?” Jaskier managed to spot the deep cleft where once had been a stone step and succeeded to not stumble into it. He maybe felt as inelegant as a three legged dog, but at least he had been spared from another Kaer Morhen public humiliation. “Phew, need to thank Vesemir for the lanterns, considerate old Wolf that he is.”

Eskel mumbled something under his breath the minstrel couldn't pick up and as they finally reached the corridor of the first floor, they found another lantern in front of Geralt's and Jaskier's room. The Witcher carefully leaned Jaskier against the door.

“There you go, bard. Good night.”

Jaskier tumbled into the room and was immensely proud he made it to the makeshift bed that Geralt had prepared for him without tripping over his own feet. The bard had, of course, complained about the fact that the Witcher had insisted on keeping his broad bed all to himself. Now, as Jaskier clumsily stripped off his boots, trousers and doublet, he finally understood that his straw mattress had been positioned at the warmest possible place in the whole room. He hadn't noticed it the night before, because he had been out the moment his head had touched his cushion, but now -.

The bard sighed happily as he curled up under the mass of warm furs and woollen blankets. The embers that glowed right next to him revealed that the Witcher had lit a fire some time ago, probably as he had returned to their room. Strange, Jaskier thought and yawned, brain fuzzy with alcohol and exhaustion. Thinking of something that belonged to Geralt as _their_ room? Very strange.

“Found the way?” The Witcher's sleepy growl sent a jolt through Jaskier's weary body.

“Yeah”, the bard answered and yawned again.

“Good”, Geralt muttered. “Won't place lanterns for your drunk ass every night. You better learn.”

Jaskier went from gloriously hammered to stone cold sober within the blink of an eye.

Geralt cared.


	5. The saddest thing

Whenever Yennefer of Vengerberg appeared, Geralt's world came to a screeching halt and so did Jaskier's. Monster contracts were forgotten. Meetings postponed. And old friends suddenly second choice.

The minstrel had repeatedly told himself that he could live with it. Because why shouldn't he? Jaskier could rely on the fact that after two or three days of tumultuous lovemaking with Geralt, Yennefer would be bored or angry or both. She would eventually leave the totally enchanted, but dumbstrucked Witcher and her disappearance would cause another giant rift that Jaskier would always try to fill with conversation, songs and drinking company.

This time, the minstrel wasn't so sure if he could do it any more. Jaskier was an intelligent men and he was beyond the point where self-deception worked. He knew that all his futile efforts to cheer up Geralt would lead to his own suffering. Some day he would just break down and never get up again. 

It wasn't Geralt's usual sour moods ultimately following Yennefer's regular withdrawls that hurt the most. The yelling, the menaces, the impatientness and the annoying habit of blaming Jaskier for everthing that went wrong these days - the minstrel could live with all of these heavy outbursts.

It was the silent moments that had destroyed the bard over the last years. Jaskier had finally understood that, no matter how hard he tried, he would never be enough to give Geralt the peace the Witcher deserved. Never cherished enough to make the black void disappear, that terrible darkness that would cling to Geralt's soul for restless days and sleepless nights after being left again.

Jaskier was trapped. He had allowed himself to be codependent and while doing so, he had welcomed the consequences of Yennefer's moods to suck on his own well-being. Letting Geralt into his life meant leaving an open door for the sorceresses.

It needed to stop. He needed to break free.

Yennefer elegantly rose to her feet and took Geralt's hand, keeping him in her grip effortlessly. The couple had been sitting on a bench in the taproom of the small inn, lost in the intimate world of their conversation, not noticing what Jaskier had been doing.

“So sad you're sharing a room”, the sorceresses mumbled, her violet eyes a challenging tease, directed at both her lover and the bard.

“He will no doubt find a warm place for his head”, Geralt replied and shrugged, only looking at her, her flawless features, her raven hair, like she was the most precious thing on the Continent. Jaskier's throat constricted and he wanted to puke. The fine red whine he had been drinking suddenly tasted like vinegar and he pushed the glass away with his fingertips. 

“And if I don't?, the minstrel snapped and hated himself for displaying his heart's shards so openly. Yennefer just smirked, but Geralt froze. The Witcher's amber eyes wandered, left the woman's face, found Jaskier's furious and sad eyes. For one second, it was just Geralt and Jaskier, a connection that had been deeper than anything Jaskier had ever endeavoured in his previous life. “It is my room, too”, the minstrel added, trying for a light tone, but he found that his voice was failing him.

The bard needed this confrontation so badly. Just a chance to finally let out what had been building up for years, the brimming hatred, the tumour of jealousy and unrequited love that slowly consumed him.

“Jaskier, please”, Geralt mumbled and the bard closed his eyes, struck by a wave of nausea. The Witcher rarely begged. He decided and he demanded because he hated it to lower himself by succumbing to the social conventions that came along with a friendship. But this time, he begged and there was so much gentle hope in his voice, so much trust for Jaskier to step back and make this easier for Geralt.

The minstrel sighed deeply and opened his eyes again.

“I'll be fine”, he croaked and faked the brightest stage smile he could produce. His hand waved the couple away in a nonchalant gesture. “But let me know when the room is safe again. I absolutely can't be bothered with any signs of your corporeal follies.”

Geralt cleared his voice.

“I will let you know”, the Witcher rumbled and he looked relieved, softened by the realisation that the minstrel didn't have to put up a fight. Jaskier bit his lip, anticipating something that would definitely feel awkward or careless. But it turned out to be worse. “I will light a candle by the window, so you know when to come home.”

Jaskier barked a laugh to hide the impact Geralt's words had on him and avoided Yennefer's knowing glare. Naked despair shredded his composure into little pieces and, hidden by the table, his fingernails dug into the flesh of his thighs, hoping that one pain would mercifully overlay the other.

“Secret romantic, aren't you? A light to guide me? Really?”

The Witcher was visibly taken aback and furrowed his brows. 

“That's what we always do, Jaskier”, he stated coolly and finally allowed the sorceresses to lead him away. The bard watched the couple disappear at the corridor that led to the guest rooms and waited for another minute before he allowed his grief to take over. A silent tear fell down at the scratched table plate. Then another.

Geralt hadn't even understood that his words had desecrated a ritual that has been his and Jaskier's for over twenty years. He had turned it into something that was also connected to Yennefer now. For the minstrel, it felt like a part of his life had been cut out with a blunt knife and carelessly thrown away.

And the saddest thing was that Jaskier knew he would allow Geralt to do it again.


	6. Rebirth

The night was pitch black. There were no moon, no stars. Summer had moved on. The city lights had finally died out, as had the unsettling sounds of humans living their lives. One window after another went dark, conversations faded away. The traveller could smell the river, rotted and filthy with only a hint of something that was enchantingly familiar. Maybe it was the scent of remembrance that tainted his senses.

His steps rang through the dirty cobble stone alleys and mud splashed under his solid boots. Lonely whores skulked in the dark, huddled into their warm cloaks, unwilling to present their bodies until a potential costumer showed interest. As one of the approached him, he wanted to wave her away, but she had already seen his face and retreated with a disgusted shriek.

He finally remembered the name of the feelings her rejection evoked as he experienced the emotional echo that turned inwards and cut as keen as a razor. Sadness. Regret. Longing. He pushed them away with ease.

The numbness that had been holding his body and soul captive for weeks seemed to wither with every social interaction, every place he visited, every face that reminded him of somebody or something that had been hidden behind a impenetrable veil of incertitude. 

He was chasing after a trace of breadcrumbs that were the fragments of his former life, only to realize that there was nothing out there that wasn't ugly. Sometimes, after finding out that he indeed deserved the hate people wore inside their hearts, he had even considered that maybe remaining dead would have been merciful. For them, not for him.

He knew deep down inside the world was a place that held no mercy for monsters.

And so he had pressed on, staggered through hamlets and villages, cities and castles and cemeteries, because he needed to find out if there was a place that would finally reveal if there was something for him to live for. Again.

It wasn't about emotions. The traveller just wanted to know. A part of him was a creature that struggled for dominance. Knowledge was power and power meant survival. It was an instinct he knew they had planted into his body like a poison ivy so long again. The seed had finally suffocated everything that could have grown on the field that had been meant to be his human life.

In fact he despised the shallow silhouettes of his feelings, the numbed dwellings of pain and something he couldn't label, a dull pressure behind his sternum that had dragged him further and further into the world of men. A nameless guide that could easily take his breath away and that he had tried to ignore so badly it had hurt him physically.

The broken men who had told him they were his family had advised him to come to the city and search for a specific house at the university district. To ask for a man he had supposedly known for decades, whom he had travelled the continent with. A talented wordsmith who had forged the traveller's life's legacy into his poems and songs.

He entered the half-timbered house without hesitation after he had finally found it. The door wasn't locked which stroke the traveller odd. As he moved through a small, dark corridor, wooden floor boards creaked under the his steps. Nobody showed up to evict him; he was only met with silence, the faint smell of food and _something _else.__

__The instincts balling up in his chest drove him forward and he silently took the stairs to the first floor. A gleam of aureate light emerged from a door gap and the traveller's hand slowly pushed it open. He found himself at the threshold of a messy study room. Several floor-to-ceiling shelves were crammed full of colourfully bound books. They smelled of ancient parchment and iron gall ink, a scent that reminded the traveller of the wrecked keep in the Blue Mountains that had once been his home._ _

__A man slept at his desk, dark head resting on his folded arms, lean body slumped forward in an uncomfortable position. The traveller knew him. He blinked at the sudden realisation and took some time to watch the sleeper closely. Chestnut hair, streaked with few white tresses, framed the man's delicate face. A carefully shaven beard brought out his soft features favourably, as did his well fitting clothes of the latest fashion. The sleeper's eyes were closed, but the traveller knew they had the colour of cornflowers in full bloom, a vibrant tone that he could _feel_ behind his sternum without even seeing it._ _

__Suddenly he found it hard to breathe and his gaze wandered to the window. There was a beeswax candle in a silver chandelier, sharing its light with the world on the other side of the glass. The reverberation of the flame bloomed in the traveller's chest, unfolding petals of reminiscences and an unbearable pain that left him gasping a name._ _

__“Jaskier.”_ _

__Finally the man at the desk stirred and woke. He blinked and lifted his head, freezing in his movements as he realised he wasn't alone any more._ _

__“You.” The poet whispered, voice broken like shattered glass. “You are dead.”_ _

__“I was.” The traveller rasped. “I am back.”_ _

__The poet stood, slowly, like a dreamer fighting against the pull of being drawn back into the depth of a nightmare. His slender hands gripped the edge of the desk to support his trembling body._ _

__“It can't be. Leave. Please.” The poet's face was ghostly pale now, scarred by the antagonism of horror and hope, his eyes lifeless. “I must be dreaming. Are you here to torment me again?”_ _

__The traveller's hand picked up the chandelier before he was even knowing what he was doing. He stared into the flame, unable to meet the poet's gaze any longer. His vision blurred as he dared to make a single small step towards the friend he had forgotten and now found again._ _

__“I remember the light.” The traveller succumbed to the memories that started to tear him apart little by little, opening wounds he hadn't even known to be there, allowing them to bleed out inside of the pressure that threatened to tear his chest apart. “It was all I had to give. I am sorry it wasn't enough.”_ _

__He gulped down his fear, the blinding agony of his failure and dared to look up again. Their eyes met over the flame, blue and golden, and something broke inside of the traveller's body, leaving him bare and exposed._ _

__“Geralt”, Jaskier whispered and suddenly there was no more fear, no more pain. “You came back. The light guided you. So it's everything I ever needed.”_ _

__There was an overwhelming promise in Jaskier's eyes, the certainty that home would maybe never be a place, but always a person. The traveller finally knew that nothing mattered any more. Nothing but the love he had been searching without even knowing he would find it within himself and in Jaskier's smiling face._ _

__The traveller ceased to exist. But Geralt was born into the light again._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am a hopeless romantic. :) I hope you liked this little 5 + 1 and shed a tear with me about these wonderful characters the Witcher universe gifted us with.


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